The Spaces In Between
by Monster Tesk
Summary: There was a time when Nick thought that one day he could live normal; could have a lover and a job and be a nice law-abiding citizen. Now he knows different. Sequel to Those Things Without Words.
1. A Prologue To The Spaces In Between

As usual if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. Course language in this chapter. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild(mostly mentions) Nick/OC sort of.

This is a sequel to my story Those Things Without Words (I often abbreviate it TTWW) which is up on already. You can find it through my profile.

I feel as if I must point out that at this point the story will get darker, maybe a little more gory, and probably a lot more complex than the previous one. However, I believe it will be easier to read and maybe a little less chunky than the last one. This one focuses more on Nick than Monroe and will probably run about the same length. Expect large and small time leaps and me leaving out anything that I think isn't absolutely necessary for my objective. The TTWW series is an _emotional study_ and not an action story so expect me to often just hint at physical confrontations or things like that. I'm far too lazy to write scenes that don't really matter all that much.

Warnings: violence, gore, sex, angst, children, confusing writing style, long replies to reviews. Monroe/Nick and, to an extent Nick/Warren(OC).

I feel I must also warn that unlike the majority of people I meet I wasn't raised on fairy tales or tricked into believing in Santa. I grew up banging pots with wooden spatulas and yelling at the moon if said moon was a full moon and fell on a Saturday. I'm not kidding. That was family bonding right there. That and fishing toads out of the dilapidated hot tub in the backyard and chasing after lizards under rocks near the barn. I used to howl at coyotes to warn them off our property. I grew up as close to feral as you can get and still be literate.

Without further self-centered rambling I present to you:

Chapter One: A Prologue to The Spaces In Between

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><p><em>His eyes are auspicious birds. Vultures mounted atop road kill. That settling feeling when a hawk has no interest in making a meal Out of you. But the raptor considers it… I've seen burnt summer skies The color of his eyes perambulator- Alive but full of heat. <em>

He was reeling in the light, a visible strike against the whited out trees. White shapes against a white board. His jeans looked dark and feeble in the over-powering color. It seemed he spent all of his time running away these days.

When he was twelve Aunt Marie had taken him south during winter. In a rickety old Toyota, they had climbed the Sierra Nevadas. She had said it was a surprise trip- a Christmas holiday. Nick hadn't believed her breathless with nerves claims. He had simply jerked his head once and climbed out to close the rusted cattle gate behind the car. He was used to following orders and never getting explanations, pretending to forget the scars and the knife under his mattress.

The inside of the cabin had been moss green and mustard. He missed the first week of school up in the cabin, with nothing to do but let his legs carry him as far away as they could before turning around and trudging back. His aunt had sat outside the horse stable turned garage with the door cracked, witling small caricatures of bears.

Over dinner she would take stuttering words and a terrifying glint in her eyes to press into him stories. It started with Mother Goose and her orphan collection and ended with the Trickster –Coyote- and how his "harmless" pranks sometimes leant to more sinister things for those involved. In the middle had been the Interlopers- a hound man and a fox girl who had wanted to be together; they were each other's true love. At the end of the story, the fox family had used the roughness of a barky tree to violently skin the hound man whose howls had echoed in the canyon unanswered as his family huddled around their matron and watched her cube the fox girl's heart and fry it in a skillet.

Now running through the same mountains so many years later Nick was reminded of that winter vacation. His breath fogged, he could feel the moisture cling to his dry, cold face. He would keep telling himself not much farther, not much longer, it's almost over until it was.

Leaning against an oak tree, he breathed deep and allowed himself a moment to feel sorrow. He really had thought this had been done, over, completed. He spat into the snow, his stomach turning queasy from swallowing too much blood. The red in the snow brought him back to that winter vacation.

He had fallen in a gulley, granite rock too steep on one side for him to climb and the other side too muddy and covered in wild berry vines to safely climb. It had taken him hours to find his way out and back to the cabin. When he had the snow in front of the garage had been splashed in something black, it didn't melt like Nick knew snow did when covered in water. It seemed frozen and porous like the lava rocks his science teacher had showed them earlier that year. There had been dabs of red leading back to the cabin's back door.

Nick shakes himself from the memory, suddenly terrified to remember any farther and takes off again. Just a little more, he tells himself, just a little farther, he was so close.

It still hit him sometimes. He'd be cleaning the dishes or standing inside his door going through his mail and it would hit him like a prickling all over: a warm flush of guilt followed by the prickling sensation of grief. It always felt like this, with his whole body tense and hot- shame and guilt and the most horribly happy whisper in the back of his head reminding him that he will never have to deal with him again. Then the grief sets in like he's standing naked in the middle of a parking lot, his toes curled into the gritty slush below with his head tipped back, neck straining almost painfully with little starbursts of affection, love, sadness, and pain landing on his body and melting like quiet little snowflakes in the night. It seemed so peaceful and that was always the problem because it was. Grief was peaceful, nice in a near-cripplingly depressed way. He enjoyed the silence of an empty house and an eventless life. It was peaceful- tranquil with the only excitement being if he could finish an order on time.

When the silence was so loud it overwhelmed him, Monroe would walk into the kitchen and lean against the wall, bury his face in the soft leather and move his head lightly. He'd listen to the scrape of his beard against the jacket and dig his fingers into it as if it were on the man it belonged to. It felt petty and right and a little more than melodramatic to want more than anything to be held in the arms of a man whom the news reported had been fished out of the Willamette.

Monroe loved the peace and quiet, it was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Purgatory on Earth.


	2. Breadcrumbs and Shades At Night

As usual not mine and if this isn't your ship get off my boat, if you find an error you get one free fic! (1,000 words or less, any fandom that I know of). Eh…. I happen to be someone who cusses a lot so expect that. Also I should probably warn you that there will be mild(mostly mentions) Nick/OC sort of.

This is a sequel to my story Those Things Without Words (I abbreviate it TTWW) that is up on already. You can find it through . It's on my profile page.

Warnings: violence, gore, sex, angst, children, confusing writing style, long replies to reviews. Monroe/Nick and, to an extent Nick/Warren(OC).

I feel I must also warn that unlike the majority of people I meet I wasn't raised on fairy tales. I grew up banging pots with wooden spatulas and yelling at the moon and coyotes. I'm not kidding. That was family bonding right there. That and fishing toads out of the dilapidated hot tub in the backyard and chasing after lizards under rocks near the barn. I used to howl at coyotes to warn them off our property. I grew up as close to feral as you can get and still be literate so my grasp of fairy tales and otherworldlies is exceptionally different than most peoples. If there is an inaccuracy or something skewed you can blame it on my strange upbringing.

Before we start, as ever, I'd like to thank the people who replied to, well, the last chapter and the epilogue on TTWW:

Hime-Miko-Love- Thanks. I try to be as realistic as I can. But then at the same time I'm a firm believer in fuck-the-haters-write-what-you-want so… yeah.

Annon- Thank you. I'm glad you liked TTWW enough to read it so quickly and that you enjoyed the tenseness of it. I will continue. Ha. I just… needed a breather. I'm pulling from personal experience of a different sort for TSIB and it's a little more… of a soft thing. It's like I tried to climb with a newly healed arm and found out it wasn't quite healed enough for that. I might end up disappearing more with this one simply because it pulls on things that have more profoundly affected the sort of person I am than my flakiness.

.Sure24- You are correct. One free fic for you coming up probably soonish. I have it plotted out I just haven't been arsed to write anything with HP for a while. And thank you. I think my story is lovely as well. Well, I just think I'm lovely so there's that.

There were several others as well that I could reply to including one abrasive anon who took the time to tell me that they didn't like how I interacted with you readers of this story. I'm pretty sure I've told you peeps a couple times that this series is experimental for me. Meaning I'm testing out different writing styles, as well as other portions of this. The way I responded to comments was part of that.

If any of this isn't on your ticket then get off my boat. Or not. Really, it's up to you.

With what could possibly be less of an ado, here it is:

Chapter Two: Whisper To Me In The Dark

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><p><em>There are things I never speak of. Things that whisper to me in the dark. They come so swiftly to comfort me. These nasty little shades at night… Then when the lights do go out They step through the spaces in between They sweetly torture me with these things I'll never speak.<em>

Monroe is beginning to suspect that his life is being written by a bored, sexually frustrated, sadistic twenty-something with a morbid thing about fake death.

"Do you ever actually stay dead?"

He isn't even all that surprised, really.

"Before we begin the 'you bastard I thought you were dead again' talk can I use your bathroom? It's been a long drive…"

Monroe sighs and holds the door open. Nick flashes him a quick grin and darts past. The bathroom and the front door close at the same time. Monroe walks to the kitchen to the sounds of Nick unbuckling his belt, unzipping, then, of course, the obvious sounds. He gets out two beers because it just seems like standard operation at this point. Monroe sits on his stool, back against the counter, head resting on the cabinet next to him, beer dangling in his hand between his knees.

"So… I'm not dead." Monroe watches Nick with a sideways look as Nick rubs his hands on the sides of his thighs.

"Congratulations."

"I… uh… you're not very happy."

"It's three in the morning. I was having a good dream. Why don't you ever," here Monroe gestures half-assedly, "re-animate at a reasonable hour? I mean I know the undead have a thing for the witching hour but is it too much to ask for you to show up during regular business hours?"

Nick is smiling; Monroe can _feel_ the irritating shape of his lips. The beer is taken from his hand and Nick's thighs brush Monroe's knees.

"Would you like me to make it up to you?" Nick skims a single finger teasingly above the band of Monroe's pajamas, barely dipping his finger underneath. Monroe's dick reacts before his brain: trapping Nick with his knees and rolling his hips up, both demanding and offering in the same gesture.

Monroe really wished he knew what his body was doing because it obviously isn't on board with the Saying No and Kicking Nick Out Plan. He still hasn't moved his hand from where it had hung between his legs. Now it brushes passively against Nick's jeans. Monroe resists many urges involving his hand and Nick's jeans.

Until Nick presses closer and runs his hand slowly down Monroe's chest, a sinfully innocent smile on his devil-lips. Then Monroe's hand is steadily edging down the inner seam of Nick's jeans. Monroe leans up and Nick follows suit, leaning down and hovering his lips close to Monroe's.

"I want," Monroe grazes his lips against Nick's briefly, a wicked smile on his face. "To be done with getting woken up in the middle of the night by you."

Nick's hand presses into his side and slides down, following the line of his hip, pressing his thumb into the soft inner portion of his hip.

"I can think of some pretty pleasant ways for me to wake you up."

"Tempting, Nick, but why are you here?"

"It can wait till morning," he replies while slowly dropping to his knees. Monroe's breath catches and his head thumps against the cabinet behind him.

The thing gurgled merrily. Nick pressed his lips together in disgust. A bleb frothed from its mouth the color of crude oil, the texture of freshly poured milk.

"Do you think we don't know your weaknesses?" It chuckled wetly.

"We made a deal. You can't interfere with them."

"Oh, Hansel, do you think we don't know about your little puppy love?" It raised a hand and rubbed its lips. A smear like black lipstick spread where it touched. Nick felt queasy.

"How quaint. But don't worry, there are rats in your big bad wolf's walls same as everyone else."

"What're you going to do to him? What do you want of me for his safe passage?"

"Oh you sweet little Snow White. It's too late. Your wolf is huffing and puffing right now and we're going to blow his house down."

Nick let out an ardent cuss and turned to flee. Its laughter chased after him, popping like soap bubbles in his stomach.

"Not even you, little grimm boy, can outrun your shadow!"

He was an avalanche through the woods. A cold force more powerful than anything, nothing could outrun him. Nick concentrated hard on that feeling of power, pictured it in his head as clear as he could. A mass of snow rushing uncontrollably through the woods, breaching the forest's boundaries and stopping in Monroe's back yard.

Nick jammed a couple fingers on the doorknob. He could care later. Right now he had to make sure. Had to keep Monroe safe. He just hoped he could make it in time.

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><p>I know, I've been gone very very long. I'll make it up to you guise. I'll try to publish another one later tonighttomorrow.


	3. Stains and Disgust

All usual warnings and disclaimers. This one is a bit short, I know, but that's the way it falls. Expect the next chapter some time next week.

Also trying a new thing where I bold the first sentence of each perspective.

Chapter Three: Stains and Disgust.

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><p><em>The thing about marble is it doesn't yield, Rip, tear, give and fold over. Noxious words from a nauseous person. Heart hurt, Stomach hurt, headache. I did this. I can do nothing else. The thing About sculptures (paper, plastic, or marble?) is that no one asks it what it's trying to say. They think they know all about it after they look. Twice.<em>

**"At any point in time are you going to tell me what that was?**

Nick turned the sink on and tried to wash his hands clean. He looked over his shoulder briefly to check on Monroe. Still sitting on the floor against the wall, breathing heavily with one hand clutching the front of his now soiled jeans.

"You know what it was."

"No, really, I don't." Nick dried his hands very carefully, making sure to get all of the goo of its guts off his hands.

"You know this world better than I. You know what that was," Nick said as he stared down at the now stained towel. "Sorry, I ruined your towel."

"Please tell me what that was, Nick." Monroe's voice sounded slightly more panicky with every word he said.

"I can't."

"Not that crap again. That… thing was in my house and it looked like you and…" Monroe abruptly stopped talking and shuddered, clutching tighter at his undone jeans.

"And what?" Nick leaned against the counter, dirty towel gripped tightly, his jaw clenching and unclenching unconsciously.

"You can't keep this stuff from me anymore, man. It was in my house and it was… it's everywhere!" Monroe stood up, redoing his jean buttons. His eyes were wide as he edged around the fading stain on his floor.

"You know what it was, Monroe."

"There are no Wesson like that."

"They wouldn't call themselves that," Nick said absently. "You need to pack."

"What? Wait, what?"

"We might not have much time before they try again."

Monroe shook his head, staring down at the stain, now barely more than a shadow.

"This is unbelievable," he said.

Nick couldn't help laughing at that. It sounded more like he was trying to sob and scream at the same time and choked than like any real laugh aught to sound.

**Disgust, in all its various forms is a word that Monroe uses frequently. **Most often to describe himself. The word embodies its definition. The first syllable starts by causing the upper lip to retract from over the teeth, baring them in a slight snarl of revulsion, and finishes off with a hiss meant to repel that thing which causes the word. The second syllable is more guttural, the jaws crack open and flinch as if the stomach has turned and is about to eject its contents. The mouth corners pull down and drag the rest of the face with them clearly displaying how repugnant the subject of this adjective is. It ends with another hiss, abruptly stopped by a sharp and projectile 't.' The word is powerful and evocative. Sometimes it seems like a hideously beautiful word, graceful and compelling in its metaphorical stench.

Monroe had never thought that the word would be unsuitable to describe something he found repulsive. So the fact that it fell short now to describe just how… how… disgusted he was seemed inconceivable. Monroe felt like a computer, stuck. He had a rotating circle of a blank face. He may as well have had 'Loading… Loading… Connection Error: Unable To Find Server. Try Again' flashing through his eyes.

He sat there, just attempting to remember how to breath, seeing that thing's face morph and implode while Nick stood behind it with some strange dagger in his hand. He had never seen that before. Though parts of what happened seemed familiar like when he saw furniture that an old lover had owned or a particular style of clothing that harkened him back to times in his life half remembered and long past. Monroe felt like he knew what just happened even as the larger part of his brain quailed at the thought of understanding anything about that black slick now spread across his kitchen or the way that thing's face had split at the lips and dribbled black, it's eyes pressing out and bulbous and splitting just like the mouth had at the corner of its eyes. It had been hideous. Far more so than Monroe had words for.

The way Nick talked, though, was familiar like some old memory he remembered having. It was like all the things in his brain that could help him figure this out were so intangible and faded. Like a picture of a video off of TV. He didn't want to remember, though. It was like he was terrified to know what he knew.

Which was silly. He was the big bad wolf. He could do this. Maybe. But he was so afraid. Monroe felt like he did when grandmother would sit him down by the fire in the evening and teach him his place in the forest of life. He would shake and stare at her with big eyes when she'd describe how if he wasn't smart he'd be strung up by his ankles and gutted like his great great grand pappy, Silas. It was never so direct, never such a straightforward threat but the message was always received loud and clear: be a clever blutbad and maybe you'll be able to sit with your grandpups and like she was then.

So he redid his jeans, stood up, tried a little more to remember what he knew and when it finally hit him he said "This is unbelievable."

Nick laughed and Monroe felt like a little kid lost in the sunless, ancient part of the forest where his ancestors themselves had even paused to look over their shoulders for those things that dwelled in the corner of the eye.


	4. Copper Soup A Melting Pot

I know I've probably lost many of the people who originally followed this story so I feel I should remind those reading that this, as well as all of my works, are experimental. I use fanfiction to hone, practice, and experiment with different writing styles and rhetoric. This means that my writing style, the style of the story, the type of narrative, and basically everything else can and probably will change from time to time.

I am not currently aware of needing any warnings for this chapter but I will say that there are going to be adult topics, gore, horror, child abuse, violence, and most likely sex and other stuff I haven't thought of in this story at some point or another. I will do my best to warn in that chapter what needs to be warned. If I miss something or am unaware of its triggering affects or extreme aversions then message me and I will add in the warning.

Oh, I forgot. I do cuss. A lot. And… uh… Grimm is not mine. If this is not your ship then get off my boat and find one taking passengers with your ship on the ticket.

Um…. Possibly other stuff that I haven't thought of.

This is probably the longest chapter by far. I think. We'll see.

Chapter 4: A Copper Soup: The Melting Pot of Bitterness and Temptation

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><p><em>In the dark I found my wings. I tried to fly with them… They shattered like crystallized sugar. I fell and my wings cut me. Here I sit in a coppery soup of my own failures. The sweet tang of crushed ambition burns me. This false success has made me want for sight more now than I had when I thought it impossible to possess. <em>

**Monroe floated (flew?) in a jungle old and feral the way nothing was anymore. **It wasn't the civilized sort of wildlife that humanity had crafted around itself, full of predictable dangers and comforting darkness. This jungle was bright and cluttered and slick with life. Monroe shivered, feeling no eyes on him as he drifted down. He was puny here, insignificant.

He felt his paws touch down and become as solid as the world around him. He felt strange and more natural than he ever had before. The pads of his paws and his underbelly felt like scales. Like the ghost of scales.

He was a creature of the Oncewas. A phantom of someone else's spirit mixed with his. A brindled black snake with cat's paws and ears, its whole body the dexterous tail of a snake's body. Monroe pricked his ears and whined. He licked his lips with a forked tongue and followed the snake, feeling the phantom pull of primeval need to stay close to one's mate. The snake had one wolf eye, one leopard eye, both ringed by scales and without eyelids. Its wide forked and abrasive tongue flicked out of a snout that was some grim mixture of snake, leopard, and wolf. He lead Monroe into a clearing in which set a clapboard house or a great house shaped tree? The edge of the clearing was lined with large stones specked with iron. The only way through was a break at which a bridge had been made over a healthy creak. The snake crossed the bridge. Inside the stones, the snake, and everything else flickered. Monroe, pacing at the edge of the bridge, witness the snake shake itself and stand into Nick.

Nick called out sounds that some part of Monroe's brain recognized as a name. The front door flew open and out the house came two small children. They were followed by a third child walking soberly with a red haired woman. Monroe recognized her. Juliette.

The first two kids ran up and hugged Nick's legs, their hair curling into dark little locks around their face. Their tiny voices peeled the fur off of Monroe. The little girl looked just like Nick.

Something flickered in the corner of Monroe's eye. A puma with large dragon flu oil slick wings fluttered next to his head. It turned to look at Monroe and he saw the thing's face melt. A blond woman with gray eyes that split at the corners. Her face had puma markings split into it.

"This is what he's keeping from you. Why he had to run in the first place," she said, her voice deep and edgeless like Elvis except without that familiar feeling like the sound of homecoming.

"Triplets," she said, "and a loving wife. This is why you don't matter to him."

"This is a dream."

"You are asleep but you are not dreaming, blutbad."

"Of course I'm dreaming."

"I give you my word, boy, you are not dreaming."

Monroe simply shook his head, unable to take his eyes off of Nick playing with two of his children.

"I try to tell you these things. I try to talk to you but the connection is weak, blutbad."

"Connection?"

"It's all a garble, blutbad. It's all just leaves on the wind without the branches to hold it in shape."

"I'm going to remember all of this and it's going to make no sense."

"Assurance is in the snakes leatherfold. Check where he keeps his currency. You will see me proved."

She flickered, her wings slowing or quickening so much that they seemed arching and graceful and impossible to look at. She melted back into the corner of his eye, only an oil slick of scales right there at the edge of his vision. He closed his eyes on the sight of Nick and his mate and his children.

Golden light flickered across his eyelids, filtered soft and delightful through the leaves of the trees outside the window. Monroe felt warm and comfortable and more sated than he had in months, years even. He was afraid to open his eyes. It was peaceful, quiet the way the city never is. The only sounds to be heard was the wind shifting leaves on the trees outside and the quiet existence of a warm body curled against Monroe.

Soft hair tickled his chest while little calm breaths warmed parts of Monroe. He opened his eyes to the low and roughly made ceiling. He turned his head to the right and could see the small bathroom, currently dark, with its cat motif and old, disused litterbox. The place was cold, the woodstove having burnt down to coals while they slept. From where he lay, Monroe could see a frog decorated kitchen towel hanging from the oven handle. The well-worn picnic table fit right into the rest of the place. Scattered beer bottles and empty whiskey glasses seemed incongruous and immoral in the wholesome though rustic setting of the one room cabin.

Monroe felt awful and wonderful. He didn't want to look down. He didn't want to see what fresh hell he was going to be in. He also didn't want the taste of stale beer and semen in his mouth and the nagging feeling that terrible shit was just going to happen because of this. He looked down anyway.

His heart melted like sugar cubes in hot tea.

Nick's head rested on his chest, hair mussed, lips parted and pink and a little slick from where Nick had drooled. His cheeks were a warm pink with sleep and his slack face was more endearing than Monroe could take. One of Nick's arms was curled against his chest, fingertips pressed to Monroe in a drowsy attempt at holding him. His other arm had snaked under part of Monroe's shoulder to loosely clutch at part of Monroe's shoulder and neck form behind. Nick's legs were pressed against Monroe's, Nick's toes brushing against his ankles.

Monroe could see a string of hickeys starting at just below the corner of Nick's clavicle and spreading to the other side. They were dark red and purple like the beads of a demented rosary draped across Nick with a pink stripe of flesh for rope to connect the counts of Monroe's sin in a skein of painful and hedonistic colors. The chain of bruises looked beautiful on Nick.

Monroe's dream nagged at him, though. Even while looking at the nude and clearly debauched form of the man he loved. Triplets, the pumafly had said, and a loving wife. Monroe's brain couldn't integrate the Nick who had tussled with children in the lawn of a lovely house with the Nick who had straddled Monroe and taken him for the most excruciatingly pleasurable ride of his life.

Could Nick really be a father, Monroe asked himself as he worked his way out from under Nick. Could Nick with his wicked ass and clever tongue that drove Monroe into a haze of want really be someone's daddy? Monroe searched the floor until he spotted his jeans, lost in front of the woodstove. Putting them on his mind flashed with memories of Nick crouching between his legs and mouthing along Monroe's jaw as he unbuttoned and pulled Monroe's jeans down.

Monroe pulled a Henley out of his opened suitcase and put it on. Did he sing lullabies with the same mouth he'd mewled for Monroe to fuck him harder with? Monroe could still see Nick splayed out on the rug below his bare feet, his dark hair creating a halo of sin above his head as he tugged at Monroe's hips and shoulders and writhed under him. The better question yet, Monroe thought as he yanked on his hiking boots, was why was the idea that Monroe had fucked someone's dad turning him on so much? Before he could get too disgusted with himself, Monroe quietly fled through the kitchen and out the back door.

Elbows pressed into the low barrier between the side of the hill the cabin had been built in and the back porch, Monroe lowered his head and watched a small creek trickle down the mountain several feet away and thought about how his heart had sickened with sweetness when Nick had stretched out in the spot he had just exited in bed. Monroe melted at the memory of Nick pulling the comforter to him and cuddling it in place of Monroe.

Shaking his head he fixed his eyes on the trees across from the pond slightly down the hill and watched the sunlight bound over and down the mountain to fill the trees with a refreshing green light. Monroe closed his eyes and sunlight turned the back of his eyelids red like the fire in the woodstove had when he had taken Nick's prick into his mouth and reveled in the taste. He was so very, very fucked.

**Nick woke to the flickering of warm light on his toes. **He squirmed, slid his leg over the lump of blankets and wormed his way farther into the bed. Nick felt content in a way he hadn't in years. He had hope in something he thought would bever happen. After last night he was so sure of him. Not in himself, no. Nick was still working on that but Monroe… Nick could believe in Monroe with his whole fucking being. Nick buried his face in the pillow in front of him, inhaled the scents of Monroe and sex along with the smell of woody dust that permeated the cabin.

He let out a sleepy moan and curled up. Nick could feel the achesof a body well-used. Everything pleasantly hummed in pain. He felt wrecked and absolutely starving. Nick wanted more. So much more. He didn't want to let go of this feeling. Finally, when basking in the haze of sleep became impossible, Nick rolled to edge of the bed and sat up, stretched his arms above his head, arched his back and curled his toes, checking the room for Monroe. Nick wasn't worried yet. He couldb't be. It didn't stop the lance of panic through his heart when he couldn't find Monroe in the barn attached to the cabin.

Some of his clothes were gone as well as his shoes. Nick didn't doubt that if Monroe wanted to he could survive in the wilderness. Nick knew it had been too good. Last night had been too fantastical to continue. Nick pulled on a pair of jeans, a shirt left unbuttoned, and stepped out the back door to see Monroe, scruffy and leaning against the barrier wall. Nick smiled, he knew he probably looked like a dope with his clothes hardly on and his hair mussed up with this giant stupid grin on.

He padded barefoot up behind Monroe and wrapped his arms around Monroe's waist, reassuring himself that he was still there. The back of Monroe's neck looked beautiful, Nick kissed it because now he could and he really wanted to. Monroe pressed back into Nick's embrace so Nick squeezed his hops and molded himself better to the curves of Monroe. Nick kissed Monroe's shoulder blade and slid his hand up Monroe's side until he could feel Monroe's (nicely firm) chest under his hands. Monroe shuddered and Nick let out a sleepy contented noise, a hairaway from requesting Monroe to come back to bed with him. He rubbed his cheek against Monroe's back, feeling his scruff catch in the soft fabric of his shirt. He heard Monroe groan, it was a good groan.

"Nick, no."

Nick's heart plummeted into the acid of his gut. Of course it couldn't last; he wasn't allowed peace.


End file.
